


The Solemn Duty of Bros

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Concussed Bitty, Emotionally Constipated Hockey Players, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Playoffs, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dropping gloves when your bro gets hit.<br/>Carrying your bro's bag for them.<br/>Letting your bro wear your clothes.<br/>Tucking your bro into your bed.<br/>Watching over your bro while he sleeps.</p><p>#justbrothings</p><p>----</p><p>A missing scene fic for the night after Bitty gets checked during the playoffs, because even the mother hen of the group needs to be looked after sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Solemn Duty of Bros

**Author's Note:**

> This is my portion of the collaboration I did with Pawspaintsnthings. Check out her artwork for it [here](http://pawspaintsnthings.tumblr.com/post/138453740641/part-of-a-missing-scene-collab-i-did-with)!

It’s funny. When he looks back at this moment, all he really remembers is the feeling of weightlessness and the strange uncontrollable surge of fear in his stomach. He blinks. He’s airborne. He blinks again and he’s already on the ground, helmet gone and face pressed against the unforgiving ice.

Silence fills his ears, pressing down on him. The fear swoops up from his stomach into his chest; everything remains distant and numb, as if his body hasn’t yet caught up to what happened, hasn’t yet started registering every ache and pain. He raises up on his elbows and the entire rink tips madly. Vomit claws up his throat and he swallows hard. He’s not going to embarrass himself in front of his team. Already bad enough that he is still lying on the ice.

Time jumps strangely, jerking and slipping from one moment to the next. His head rests on the ice again, though he doesn’t remember letting it drop. Cold creeps up his forehead and his chin and cheek stings. Just a few more seconds and he’ll get up. He closes his eyes to stop the spin of the ice, though it follows him into the darkness. Distantly he hears whistles being blown and people yelling, but he can’t make heads or tails of it. Time skips again. How long has he been down?

“Bittle? Eric? Hey, can you hear me?” Coach Murray’s hand is on his back and even through his pads, he can feel the warm weight of it. Steady. Grounding.

Bitty licks his lips and nods slowly. His head protests the movement.

Someone else kneels by his head. His eyes steadfastly remain closed, but he can feel them close by, can glimpse their shadow blocking out the harsh lights above the rink. Latex covered hands touch his neck, the back of his head. Bitty hisses when the fingers find the knot already starting to form near his ear.

“Okay, kid, need you to open your eyes for me. Would feel a lot better if I know you are with us, okay?”

Bitty pries one eye open. The lights of the rink are too sharp, cutting, but he manages to open the other one after a moment. Once he fights down another wave of nausea, he wets his lips and directs his attention to the man near his head. “I’m okay. My name’s Eric. I’m at Faber. Got checked during a game. My mom’s name is Suzanne.” He knows all the questions, has heard them enough just from growing up around sports; he apparently answers fast enough that coach laughs and gently pats him on the shoulder.

The medic (Steve? Marcus? He can’t remember, but he knows the man’s face-- sees him at nearly every home game) looks him in the eyes. “Yeah? Neck hurt?” Bitty starts to shake his head, but several hands are holding him still. “Just yes or no.”

“No. Um. Bit sore.” And it is, now that he thinks about it, but it aches like he slept wrong, like he pulled a muscle when he fell. They wouldn’t be asking him about his neck unless he landed badly, unless it looked like he wouldn’t be getting up on his own any time soon. He wills his breathing calm. He can feel his arms and legs (cold from being on the ice too long) and he gives his feet an experimental wiggle. “I can get up, promise.”

No way in hell is he going to get carted off the ice. Dear lord, it’s bad enough being surrounded by people and all of them handling him like glass, like the check shattered him and they are trying to collect all his pieces. _Oh, no. Is his Mama watching the game at home?_ She’s going to kill him once she knows he’s fine.

He ignores the hands on him and pushes himself upright. His Granny always said that the Lord made him small only because He gave Dicky an extra helping of stubbornness. He has to call on every last bit of it once he is sitting up because it feels like his head is going to roll right off his neck. It’s a strange image: his head bouncing down the ice as Jack skates after it, face determined and stick raised to direct Bitty’s head into the net. He quickly bites back a giggle.

Okay, so maybe he is a bit rattled.

He accepts Murray’s hand up and leans hard against him. He may be skating off the ice, but he isn’t so stubborn that he’d refuse a bit of help. The rink continues to sway around him. Coach’s arm around him keeps him upright. The last thing Bitty needs is to faceplant onto the ice.

It’s only after he’s off the ice, sitting once more, he thinks to ask: “Did Jack manage to score?”

Both his coaches laugh and the medic mutters ‘hockey players’ under his breath before shining a light in Bitty’s eyes.

The game is over by the time he finishes being examined. A concussion, which is awful, but also a lot better than it could have been. The remaining games in the playoffs slip through his fingers, but at least he didn’t break any bones or have to spend time in the hospital.

The silver lining fails to reassure him. A headache has taken up permanent residence, radiating from where his head hit the ice and pounding behind his eyes. He’s still half in his gear and the sweat he worked up during the game has dried, leaving him disgusting and cold.

And he still needs to pack up his stuff, take a shower, and head back to the dorm. It weighs his shoulders down and for a second he really wishes his Mama was there to coo and baby him.

He mutters to himself as he heads to the locker room. “Eric Richard Bittle, you are not going to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve taken knocks before. Katya wouldn’t stand for this.” He imagines her stern face, the bite of her Russian accent telling him to get up and go again. _Нет. Опять. Up, Bittle, up._ Her voice carries him down the hall, forcing his feet to move.

He expects the locker room to be mostly empty by the time he gets in there, but the entire team is still there, heads down and quiet. He squints at the light and looks around. The coaches said they won, but the silence in the room hangs dejected, stale. “Something happen?”

Holster’s head snaps up and a grin spreads across his face. It’s only marred by his split lip. Next to him Ransom punches Holster’s shoulder like he just won a bet. “See? Told you, man.”

Shitty swoops in and wraps an arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “Look at this tough fucker. Look at him. Fucking amazing. Not even that thug Spencer can take him out.” He squeezes Bitty a little too tight, but it’s comforting all the same. “They make ‘em tough in the South.”

Bitty ducks his head in embarrassment, then chances a peek over towards Jack’s stall. Jack looks up briefly from where he is tying his shoes and goes back to what he is doing, but it’s enough for Bitty to notice the dark purple bruise blossoming on Jack’s cheek.

“What on earth?” As Bitty looks around, he notices half the team sports cuts and bruises, all the markings of a full-on brawl. The half-formed memory of whistles being blown while he was down on the ice flitters across his mind.

“What? You thought we wouldn’t get your back?” Shitty's face falls, reminding Bitty too much of when he thought Bitty didn’t trust the team to protect him when he came out.

“No! I just. Oh lord, y’all didn’t have to get into a fight. You aren’t even supposed to do that.” Tears threaten to spill down his face and he swipes a hand across his eyes. It’s just the concussion talking. No reason to burst into tears because his team started swinging fists the minute he got checked.

Lardo’s fingers entwine with his hand and she gives him a gentle squeeze. She’s not supposed to be in the locker room, but then this night is shaping into a list of ‘not supposed tos.’ “What’d they say?”

Bitty sniffles. “Concussion.” He shrugs.

Lardo’s mouth presses into a thin grim line and Shitty whistles low.

“I’m fine. Just a mild one.” But everyone on the team is staring at him like he is going to fall over dead any second now.

“No such thing as a _mild_ concussion, Bittle.” Jack’s voice cuts through the moment.

Bitty just manages to hide the flinch. Of course, Jack is angry at him. He’s managed to get hurt when the team needs him the most and made a mess of things. “No, I-- I mean, they said I’d be okay if I just rested. I promise it won’t mess with next year.”

Jack’s face contorts, impossible to read, before smoothing out again. “Get out of your gear. It’s getting late and we have classes in the morning.”

Bitty nods and hurriedly grabs his clothes from his bag before ducking into the showers. He doesn’t mean to linger, but the warm water drives away the iciness that clings to him, makes him feel less like stinking roadkill. Unfortunately, it also leaves him swaying, a deep-in-his-bones fatigue lending a heaviness to each of his movements. Maybe it would be okay to leave his stuff until tomorrow. It’s not like he needs to air his gear out for the next game or anything.

He shoves that thought deep down. He wanted to prove himself in the playoffs so badly, show that he had every right to be there, make Jack see that he loved hockey and was dedicated to it, but that chance was robbed from him the moment Spencer threw himself in Bitty’s path. Maybe it was gone the moment he stepped onto the ice in his gear.

“Bits, you drowning in there?”

Bitty shuts the water off and scrambles through drying himself off and getting dressed. The last thing he needs is Shitty barging in to “save” him. He needs this night to be over with. He can handle only so much shame and embarrassment and having Shitty dragging him out of the shower while he’s still naked and covered in soap would definitely tip things over into ‘please let the ground open up and devour me whole’ territory.

Tugging his shirt on, he stumbles out of the showers, eyes focused on sitting down and little else. He gingerly sits down on the bench in front of his stall and takes a moment to gather his wits. Most of the team has filtered out of the room, leaving behind only Jack, Shitty, and Lardo. His headache, a constant presence now, picks up tempo now that he is now longer moving. A thousand aches make themselves known: the twinge in his right shoulder, the dull throb of his neck when he turns his head too quickly, the rawness of the scrape on his cheek and chin. Miserable. _Pitiful._

Bitty straightens his spine. The sooner he packs up, the sooner he will be curled up in his tiny bed in his equally small dorm room. If he’s lucky, Jonathan will either already be asleep in his suite or still out with his friends, and Bitty will be able to avoid a mess of questions about how the game went or why he looks so rough.

He turns on the bench, careful of his neck and the way the room tilts, and goes to start the process of packing. He freezes, hand outstretched. His pads aren’t where he left them. He blinks slowly, waiting for his mind to catch up to what his eyes are telling him. He hadn’t put any of it away before heading into the showers, but now it is neatly lined up, pads hanging to air out, skates tucked away in the correct spot. His bag, full and zipped, sits in the next stall over. He opens his bag and shoves his towel into it, and that brief glance tells him that his bag is just as carefully packed. He could kiss Lardo. At least that is one less thing he has to worry about.

With that task already taken care of, he’s at a loss as to what he needs to do next. His carefully planned list of rituals he had to complete before collapsing into bed falls apart. He stands too fast and he catches himself before he falls right over. When he rights himself, Jack is standing in front of him, his own bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs the handle of Bitty’s duffle bag and settles it on his other shoulder, then walks out of the room.

Still angry. Bitty shrugs his jacket on and, his Mama’s voice ringing his head about going out into the cold with wet hair, carefully tugs on his knit cap. It’s a bit too tight where it sits next to the knot on his head and he fiddles with it until it is tolerable.

Lardo takes pity on him when he doesn’t start moving towards the door and grabs his hand. “C’mon, tough guy, time for sleep.”

Shitty takes up the spot on his other side, hand gently coming to rest on the small of Bitty’s back. Part of him wants to be annoyed with the way the team is treating him (he doesn’t need to be taken care of; he doesn’t), but the other part-- the growing larger by the second part-- is just grateful that they all seem to know exactly what he needs without him having to ask. He lets them guide him out of the rink, where Jack is waiting, leaning against the brick of the rink, both bags still on his shoulders.

The four of them set off in silence. Lardo’s hand tangled in Bitty’s and Shitty’s heat against his side both act as anchors, the rigid stride of Jack ahead a guide. He stumbles when he realizes that they aren’t heading to his dorm. The fact that they missed the turn minutes ago speaks volumes about Bitty’s current state. Even his autopilot back to his dorm is failing him tonight.

“Dorm’s back that way, folks.” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the tug of Lardo’s hand. “I know y’all are probably wanting to celebrate the win, but I think I am going to pass tonight. So, if you could just hand me my bag, I’ll get out of your hair and--”

Jack spins on the ball of his foot, never breaking stride. His knuckles are white against the black strap of Bitty’s duffle bag. He gets close and stares down at Bitty, eyeing him warily like he’s a spooked dog that needs to be coaxed to follow. Jack’s expression wars with the tension vibrating in his shoulders. “Don’t be stupid, Bittle. You aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“But I’m tired.” Bitty’s forehead scrunches up in confusion.

Lardo laughs softly next to him. “We know.”

Shitty grins down at him. “Allow me to translate, as I am well-versed in Jack: Bittle, my friend, my comrade on the ice, we aren’t about to let you head back to the dorm all by yourself. It is our solemn duty-- no, privilege to watch over you and make sure you don’t overextend yourself. We are bros and that’s what bros do.” Shitty drops the forced grimness of his tone and winks at him. “Also Mama Bittle would probably kill us if we left you alone.”

Lardo nods. “It’s true. I promised her that you would call her in the morning.”

Bitty’s cheeks flush, but he blames it on the cold. Of course, Lardo called his Mama to let her know he was okay. They really had thought of everything. “Oh.”

“Yeah, you are definitely not heading back to the dorm. Probably would have fallen over in a snowdrift on the way and then we’d have a frozen Bits to deal with.” Shitty pushes him forward and Jack takes off again without looking back to see if they are following.

The Haus greets them and Bitty’s shoulders sag in comfort. He’s never been more happy to see its ruined, chipped and peeling facade in his life. He pauses just inside and stares at the couch in the living room. Not even battered and worn out as he is makes sleeping on it appealing, but it’s not like there is a ton of room in the Haus. Plus, if he can’t sleep, the kitchen is right there… _Wait, are there rules against baking with a concussion?_

“Nope. Don’t even think about it.” Lardo corrals him towards the stairs. Up ahead, Jack disappears into his room and leaves the door open, and it’s not until Lardo pushes him through the door that he realizes what’s happening.

He’s in Jack’s room.

With a bed.

And Jack.

_In his room._

His mind gets caught in the loop, a weird combination of terror and curiosity. The room doesn’t look like Jack, not really, though there are little tells here and there that suggest Jack considers the room his home: a puck resting on his desk, a jersey tossed over the back of a chair, a battered and worn book that proclaims to be about germs and warfare. But there is a sterility to the room, too, as if Jack is trying to preserve the order of the room without leaving too much of his own mark behind.

“Bittle.” Jack shoves a large t-shirt at him and when he doesn’t immediately react, he sighs. “Come on. Change and get into bed.” Jack doesn’t wait for him to respond and ducks out of the room.

Bitty fumbles with his shirt, fingers clumsy and too heavy to remove his clothes with any sort of grace. He tugs on Jack’s shirt and rubs the worn out cotton between his fingers. He can’t read the French scrawl on the front, though he takes a fair guess that it has something to do with hockey. It smells a bit like Jack, and if his head weren’t two seconds from exploding, he would furtively tug the collar up to breathe it in. As it is, the scent is a comforting background note, a soothing balm at the end of an entirely terrible day despite Jack’s current prickly irritation.

He dithers at Jack’s bedside. Get in now or wait to see what Jack is going to do? Jack’s frustration and anger keeps Bitty frozen in his spot. Not only did he let Jack down at the game, but now he is also invading Jack’s personal space. Shitty is the only person who is really close to Jack; Bitty can’t fight back the wave of hurt mixed with worry that he is betraying Jack’s trust in some fashion.

Before he can decide what to do, Jack walks back in, glass of water in one hand and a trash can in the other. He stares at Bitty for a moment, then shakes his head. The trash can he sits next to the bed; the water finds a place on the bedside table. He flips the blankets back, then places a hand on Bitty’s shoulder and guides him into bed.

“Can’t take anything for your head just yet, right?” He grips the comforter and pulls and tugs on it until Bitty is nearly wrapped like a burrito in it.

Bitty’s no is muffled under the mound of blankets. Again Bitty loses himself for a moment in the duality of Jack. His soft voice and the firm way he tucks the blankets around Bitty send two different, conflicting messages. He’s missing something, he knows, something that would make Jack’s actions make sense, but Jack’s switch from anger to a begrudging kindness leaves Bitty’s head hurting even more.

Jack turns off the light and Bitty curls up tighter on the bed. His raising taught him to never be a bother when someone is doing him a favor. He can be small, can will himself to blend in until Jack feels comfortable again. He shuts his eyes and waits for sleep to take over, but his attention remains focused on the sounds of Jack getting ready for bed. The bed dips on the other side and, after fiddling with his pillow, Jack settles down.

“Trash can’s there in case you need it.” Jack’s voice, a low rumble already edging over into dreams, barely registers in the darkness.

Bitty rolls over and nods. He peeks at Jack, but can only make out the dim curve of his jaw, the outline of his nose. Jack’s breath has already gone steady, as if falling asleep comes just as naturally to him as a perfect slap shot.

He tries to match Jack’s breathing, but his mind circles around the game: how he could have avoided being checked, how he could have been faster, more accurate, better. His recollection of the game flashes in his mind, patchwork at the best of times. Even with parts of the game missing, he knows he wasn't as good as he should have been. His pillow is too warm against his cheek and a lump slowly forms in his throat. The words which had been threatening to spill out since he stepped into the locker room finally tumble out of his mouth without his permission. He babbles, a jumbled mess of anxiety and apology. “I’m sorry. I know I really messed up. I should have been more aware of where Spencer was, but I didn’t keep my head up and I know that’s the dumbest thing to do, but then he was there and I-- I just hope I didn’t ruin things. Y’all deserve to go all the way.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, harder and harder still. The darkness hides his tears, but they are still outlined for Jack to hear in the shaky wobble of his voice. He hates to cry in front of other people, but every nerve of his is raw, jangling with worry that he can’t filter right now. Lord, he is a mess, and Jack isn’t saying anything, isn’t even acknowledging what he said, and Bitty feels the urge to puke that has nothing to do with his concussion.

“Bittle.” Jack sighs and rolls away from him, but says nothing more. It’s not quite a dismissal, but it stings like one. Bitty lets it wash over him.

In the drawn silence, Bitty hears Ransom and Holster thumping around in the attic and Johnson’s loud snore from across the hall. The Haus settles, old wood creaking and groaning around him. He swallows hard and concentrates on the sound, imagines that his bones are settling into the bed, his muscles giving way slowly to the inevitable draw of sleep. He doesn’t know how he will make things up to Jack or the rest of the team, but his head refuses to let him linger anymore on thoughts of failure. He sniffles and pushes his face into the pillow, shutting out what dim light is filtering through the bedroom windows.

Just as sleep starts to claim him, Jack breaks the silence once more. “Bittle, that was--you don’t.” Jack thumps a fist into his pillow and blows a breath hard out of his nose. “Nice assist, eh?”

Bitty smiles into his pillow and finally relaxes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Captain's Duty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193168) by [jaradel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel)




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